White Blank Page
by rachelthenerdfighter
Summary: yet another Reichenbach Return. except this one is angsty. very angsty. this was going to be based on a heartbreaking gif set I saw on tumblr. but then my mind decided to take in in another direction. as if the characters didn't hate me enough. title obviously comes from the M&S song of the same name.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: these are grammar/formatting edits only.**

* * *

Three years. Three years since the Fall. Sherlock had been working every day for those three years trying to find and extinguish every last member of Moriarty's web. And he was doing an excellent job.

(Mycroft helped, though Sherlock would never admit it.)

There was just one last job to do. One last string of the web. One more assassin to kill.

Sebastian Moran.

How Moran managed to escape him each time he got close was a mystery. He eliminated the other two assassins. He traveled to Germany, Spain, Canada, Japan, and so many other countries, tracking down every last string so that there could be no possibility of lives being endangered again. And yet, Moran was nearly as slippery as Moriarty was. But Sherlock had to find him. He HAD to. Moran would probably – no, definitely – be the most important one to kill.

Because it was Sebastian Moran's job to murder John Watson.

Now that the other members of Moriarty's crime syndicate were gone, Sherlock lived in London again. He had a flat a few blocks away from 221B, and spent all of his time wandering the streets, searching for hints of Moran's location. Every single member of his homeless network was on the lookout as well.

Sherlock would also keep tabs on John. He never followed him back to Baker Street of course. But when John went out to buy food, go to work, or even go out on a date, Sherlock was right nearby.

Sometimes Sherlock got too close. Sometimes he got within arm's reach, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from reaching out and tapping John on the shoulder.

But when he got too close, there was always something to push him back on track.

A little red dot that would appear on a part of John's body.

It was carefully placed. If Sherlock did not back off, John would die without knowing what was going on. If Sherlock did not back off, John would die without knowing about Moriarty's twisted conspiracy.

But in some regards Moran wasn't as clever as Moriarty. The red dot was a very good clue for where the sniper was hidden away. But whenever Sherlock explored possible locations, Moran was nowhere in sight. No gun. No sniper. No clues. Nothing. How could someone manage to disappear so quickly? It was baffling.

Sherlock had planned since day one what to say when he finally returned to John. But he still couldn't think of anything. John might be angry. He might cry. He might insist that his mind was playing tricks on him, or that he was dreaming.

Their meeting was by chance. Sherlock was walking backwards, looking around for possible locations where Moran might be hiding. John was walking backwards as well, writing in a small notebook. They slammed into each other, muttered apologies, and turned around.

Sherlock had planned on asking the stranger if he knew Angela Downs, a member of his homeless network who hadn't contacted him in a while, just as an excuse for him walking backwards. But the words died in his throat. John. He was standing face to face with John. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He had to get away. Keep John safe. Maybe John would think he was seeing things. One could hope. But at the same time Sherlock selfishly wanted to stop. He wanted to hold John and never let him go. He wanted to return to his old life. He wanted his HOME back.

"Uh... Sorry, can I help you?"

He was staring. Stupid. But why did John sound like...

"Well I have to go, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Sorry again." And John continued in the direction he was walking.

John didn't recognize him.

Sherlock's heart had already broken when he had to fall. But this... this was shattering. He watched John's retreating figure for a few moments, noticing a slight limp in his right leg, before turning to head in the opposite direction. As he walked, he visited the rooms in his Mind Palace dedicated to John. And there were many, so very many. They contained things like the softness of his jumpers, his insistence that Sherlock eat three meals a day (like that would ever happen), the way his brow creased and lips pursed when he was confused, his undying loyalty... how was any of this relevant? How was it important to his work? John hadn't kept any information about Sherlock in his memory. Three years... how could you just forget someone in three years? This information was useless. He needed room for more important things.

And yet... As Sherlock sorted through the various pieces of information that composed John Watson, he couldn't bear to let any of it go. He never let on that he made room in his Mind Palace for all this, of course. For example, when they still lived together, Sherlock pretended that he didn't know a thing about John's schedule, and would ask him to help with a case while he was still on his way to work. It incensed John to no end, but it maintained Sherlock's walls.

He was pulled back into reality by the sound of feet slapping against the pavement. Quickly. The person was running, why? Perhaps it was a member of his homeless network? Sherlock turned to look at the person running towards him, then started sprinting in the opposite direction.

John.

No. No no no no no. It was a small relief to see John running after him, but there was no way that Moran wouldn't be able to see this. He had to get away.

Busy streets. He needed to get to a crowd. John couldn't be allowed to catch up. Though Sherlock wanted it more than anything. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to be the exception to John's "I'm not gay" rule. He just wanted _John_. This realization shocked him so much that he nearly stumbled to a stop. No, he had to keep running, he couldn't let John die. Not when he was so close to taking down the last string.

"Sherlock! Wait!"

No. He turned onto one street, then another. Why wasn't John STOPPING already? Didn't he know that people who ran didn't want to be followed?

A crowd of people had just exited a large movie theater. Excellent. Sherlock forced his way through them – did theaters even have the capacity for 50 people? – and stopped on the other side, panting for breath. John was working his way through, when he stopped and looked at his chest.

At the red dot that was hovering on his chest.

He stared at it, glanced over to a nearby building, and then back at Sherlock, a look of fear and confusion on his face. And Sherlock tried to run over to him. But there was a loud BANG and John was on the ground.

"JOHN NO!"

Sherlock tried to force his way through the crowd again, but their panicked swarming pushed him away and oh God was that blood? "Let me see him!" he exclaimed, but it was no use.

Moran.

A deep anger settled in his stomach. Moran would not get out of this alive. John had looked directly at a window in an apartment building across the street. That was a good place to start.

He was expecting to find a man packing up a sniper rifle.

He was expecting to find a clue, a small insignificant clue that could lead him to John's murderer. He was expecting to find another empty room.  
Before Sherlock could kick down the door to the flat, it was opened for him.

Sherlock was expecting a lot of things.

He was not expecting Mycroft.

"Ah, Sherlock," he said with a forced smile. "Why don't you come in. I'm sure you have a lot of questions."

Sherlock nodded slowly and stepped into the room.

A sniper rifle was lying on its side. Men in suits were everywhere, some conversing with each other, some typing out messages into their phones.  
And one was pointing a gun at someone bound and gagged in a chair.

Moran.

"We found him just in time," Mycroft said, swinging his umbrella slightly. "A second longer and there would've been... unhappy consequences."  
"I'm sure," Sherlock replied, trying to control his anger. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't his brother's fault. That his brother did all he could.

But John was dead.

Sherlock strode over to the man holding the gun and snatched it from him. With a shaking hand, he pointed it to the captive. "You're Sebastian Moran, aren't you," he said through gritted teeth.

The man nodded slightly.

Sherlock stepped in closer and pressed the barrel of the gun to the area right below Moran's chin. "Well congratulations then," he growled, "because your actions are about to get yourself killed." Moran's eyes widened and he shook his head frantically, but Sherlock just pressed the gun in further. "Are you happy now? ARE YOU?"

"Sherlock, stop," Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock turned to glare at his older brother, daggers coming from his eyes. "Why. Should. I."

Another voice came from the door. "Because I'm not actually dead."

And John Watson stepped into view.

Sherlock let the gun fall from his hand.

"You were less thorough than I was," he continued nonchalantly. "Wonder why that is."

Sherlock tried to walk over to John, but found his feet glued to the floor.

John took a few more steps into the room before continuing. "But that was only a few minutes, Sherlock. It took planning, lots of planning. But you only thought I was dead for a few minutes. Maybe it wasn't even a thought. Maybe it was a hunch. But I knew you were dead for two years. Understand? TWO YEARS."

"I-I'm sorry," Sherlock managed. "I wanted to, but..."

"But Moran would kill me, yes yes Mycroft told me already," John said, dismissing Sherlock's stammers with a wave of his hand. "Call me selfish, but I really don't care. I was all alone for two years, and then another as Mycroft helped me plan how to get back to you.

"Now if you don't mind-" and John walked over to where Sherlock was, picked up the gun, and pointed it at Moran once more. "How's this for karma." And with a BANG, Sebastian Moran was finally gone. He turned back to Sherlock and flashed a smile, which all but said "I'm pissed off but I'll humor you anyway." God it hurt. "Can we go someplace private? I think we have a lot to catch up on."

Sherlock nodded and gestured for John to follow him out the door. What had happened? Everything he knew and loved about John seemed to be replaced by a cold metal replica. Sure, Moran deserved to die – especially after the pain he caused the two – but he expected John to be at least a little bit merciful.

Three years.

Could so much be different between them after three years?

John clicked the door shut behind them and together they walked down the hallway.

After a minute, Sherlock said quietly "You've changed."

"Yeah, being alone for three years does that to you."

"I only did it to save your life, if there was any other way believe me I would've done it!"

"I know, and I don't blame you, but the fact remains that it hurt."

"And there was Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, any girl on the face of the Earth-"

"And how many of them have lost their better half?"

Sherlock couldn't reply to that. _I'm your better half? But I lost_ my _better half..._

"You should be happy this isn't the first I learned you were alive. I was in a rage for nearly a week. Almost considered dating Sally or Anderson just to spite you."

Sherlock smiled at this, but said nothing. He didn't loathe the two as much anymore. They actually helped to prove his innocence. Sally was the one to find the phone on the top of the hospital building, and Anderson found the message it contained; a recording of his conversation with Jim Moriarty.

"At this point I'd rather have your rage than your lack of any emotion whatsoever."

"What do you think I dealt before the Fall?" John jabbed back.

"You're not the world's only consulting detective."

"Touché."

They walked in silence for a bit longer until Sherlock finally burst out "So can I return then? To Baker Street? To my old life with you?" Outside of the pull of narcotics, Sherlock considered John to be his greatest addiction. And when John wasn't there... Sherlock had to use substitutes. Lots of substitutes. After a particularly bad night, in which Sherlock had a nightmare that John fell instead, Mycroft came into his room to find him surrounded by empty syringes, a dazed look on his usually alert face.

"Course you can return. It was your flat at first, not mine. But..."

Dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

"But I don't see how we can have our 'old life' back."

"I solve crimes and you blog about them. And I, on occasion, forget my pants. That's how."

"Yeah, I don't think so."

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "But solving crimes... it's helped you so much. It took away your limp, it made you more observant... Mycroft told me about the tremor in your hand, you _enjoy_ this!" He gripped John's shoulders, stopping them in the middle of the hall. "Why would you give that up?"  
John didn't react to Sherlock's touch. No flinch, no confusion, no appreciation, nothing. "Because I don't know if I could stand being around you anymore."

Sherlock's heart was being ground to dust.

"When you fell, I couldn't stand your presence in the flat. Your robe, your scientific equipment, your violin... it all made me want to either scream or cry. Or both. I found every last picture of you and burned it. Along with recent copies of the newspaper. The press is fickle though, so they found something else to latch onto after a few days."

Another piece of the puzzle was starting to come together. "Earlier today you didn't recognize me..."

"Because I hadn't seen your face for three years. And now you're finally here? I just... I can't do it. I can't. After living a close to normal life for so long, I can't change back so quickly."

Sherlock could now easily see what it was like to want to scream and cry at the same time.


	2. Chapter 2

Life was quiet at 221B.

Well, it wasn't quiet at first of course. Mrs. Hudson took one look at Sherlock and burst into tears. Lestrade took one look at Sherlock and punched him in the face. Sherlock accepted these reactions with apologies and stoic acceptance. When Lestrade shouted at him to just SAY something other than "sorry," Sherlock responded with the fact that he really had nothing to say, and now that both Moriarty and Moran were dead, nothing that extreme should happen again and wouldn't he please give him a case because this was becoming dull and tedious? At which point Lestrade punched him again.

Sherlock found himself wishing that John had reacted in this way.

But life was quiet. Sherlock would still play his violin at odd hours and run off to solve cases and do experiments in the kitchen, but he and John barely spoke. Not that Sherlock didn't try. Every day he would describe the case he was working on and invite John to join him. John would always decline. But Sherlock refused to give up.

"Fourteen people turned up on the corner of Elm and Thomas with no memory of how they got there."

"Great."

"Murder. Fairly certain it was the roommate, but worth checking out I suppose. Want to come?"

"Nope."

"The Declaration of Independence has been stolen."

"Stop quoting movies you find online."

Until finally John had enough.

It was the morning of yet another day at work. John hated every second of it. Despite his desire to help people in need, it felt so /mundane/. He itched for something more exciting. Something like... no. No, he couldn't. It still hurt too much.

John sat at the table, reading the morning paper. Sherlock came over with two cups of coffee in hand, and set one down in front of him. Uh-oh. Whenever Sherlock made John a cup of coffee, that meant-

"There's been another murder. Last night, Dover Road. I'm guessing it was the aunt, based on the victim's nails, but-"

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Describing your stupid cases to me. I'm not going to join you anymore. Not now, not ever. Now please leave me alone."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "I won't believe that."

"Well that's your problem, not mine."

And a funny look spread over his face. One John hadn't seen in years. Hell, he hadn't seen it since A Study in Pink. It was a look that all but said "I am so sorry, what have I done to you, I wish this didn't happen." John almost opened his mouth to apologize.

But he didn't.

Sherlock placed the second cup on the table, grabbed his coat and scarf, and walked out the door.

John stared at the front door for a minute before phoning the doctor's office, saying that he was going to take the day off.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. John stood up to answer it, but Mrs. Hudson had already beaten him to the task.

"Oh, Molly! Won't you come in dear. How've you been?"

"Hello Mrs. Hudson. I'm alright, thanks. I was wondering-"

"No, I'm afraid Sherlock's off helping Scotland Yard again, bless him."

Molly gave a nervous laugh. "Actually, I'd like to see John?"

"Oh, yes of course. Just upstairs."

John sat back down on the couch. He was still in his pajamas, but lacked any motivation to change.

"Um... hey John."

He glanced up at his visitor. "Hi Molly. How are you?"

"Oh, alright I guess," she replied with a nervous smile. "Okay. Okay. I promised Sherlock I would talk to you about this. So here we go."

"Talk about what?" John asked as Molly sat down next to him. "What's going on?"

"I should be asking the same of you," she replied. "Sherlock told me what you said to him today."

"Good for him."

"'Good for him?' Stop being like this John, can't you see what it's doing to him?"

"Then I guess he knows how it feels now."

"Excuse me?"

"He knows what it's like to be miserable. He shouldn't even be complaining, after the hell I went through for three years-"

He was cut off by a slap to the face.

"I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry, really I am, but what you're doing is _scaring_ me, and it's scaring Sherlock too!"

John rubbed his cheek – wow, that _stung_ – but made no other reply.

"Do you know what Sherlock was doing all this morning?"

"Solving that case he told me about. What else would he be doing?"

"Good guess. He was crying and begging me to find some sort of narcotic for him to take. Something stronger than he's used to. And he's used to some really strong stuff."

Crying?

"But no, you're still sour about him saving your life, for saving ALL of our lives, for taking down the worst criminal that London has ever seen!"

Sherlock Holmes didn't cry... wasn't that something he deleted?

"So if you're going to continue to put him through this, congratulations. You just lost yourself a brilliant friend. He deserves better." And with that Molly got up and stormed out.

"No... Molly, just wait a minute..." Memories came streaming back. Scenes of him telling Sherlock how important friendships were. How they protected people. And then... "_I don't have friends. I've just got one._"

Molly whirled around, hand on the doorknob. "You said that he was the most human person you've ever known. You said that you'd never think otherwise. You _wanted_ him to live! Sherlock told me, he was there!"

"Can I... can I talk to him? Where is he?"

"Not if you're going to take more revenge on him for no reason. He's gone through enough already. Don't forget that he was alone for three years too."

Sherlock was alone for three years... "I guess I... hadn't considered that."

"No shit, Sherlock."

They were quiet for a moment before John burst out laughing. Molly managed a small smile. After catching his breath, he nodded and said softly "Just let me talk to him, okay? I won't be horrible to him. Promise. Where is he?"

"Downstairs."

* * *

**AN: God I'm sorry for this. I really am. this definitely isn't one of my best fanfictions I've written. I guess I'm just not that good at making the characters suffer... anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, despite how it got kinda rushed at the end XD I'm working on some fluffy drabble right now, I PROMISE! that should be better...**


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